


The Vacuum Calls

by demonsonthemoon



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: A lot of trauma, Canon Divergent, Character Study, Emprisonment, Gen, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Trauma, general sadness and dark themes, like a lot, loss of limb, tell me if I missed anything that warrants a warning, typing these tags is very depressing but the fic is probably even more so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 23:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7733149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonsonthemoon/pseuds/demonsonthemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a year, they find him. They catch him. They lock him up.<br/>He lets them.<br/>After a year, he meets Steve.<br/>(the name is familiar)<br/>After a year, memories start to come back.<br/>(he can't remember, remembering is not allowed, remembering is not possible)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Vacuum Calls

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to Abel, who cheered me on while I was writing and who gave me the best review I could hope for on the final product.  
> (if you're curious, it just said "murder me")
> 
> Disclaimer:
> 
> Yes, this is a literary exploration of trauma.  
> No, I do not have any actual technical knowledge of trauma.  
> Yes, I emphasize the "literary" aspect of this depiction of trauma, because the purpose of this fic is not to accurately describe real life trauma and its consequences in any way.

You nearly drop the phone, because your hands are shaking.

Your hands are shaking.

Your hands haven't shaken like that since you first looked in the mirror after- You don't call it anything. Just After.

“Steve? Breathe with me, okay Steve?”

The voice is too far away. The phone is too far away. You press it against your hear, and it's too much, it's uncomfortable.

“Yeah, okay. No, I'm... I'm fine. I'm okay.”

“You're not,” Natasha says, and she's right, you know she's right, but she's also so _so_ _wrong_ , because this is what you've been waiting for for more than a year now, and the relief is _terrifying._

“When can I see him?”

 

 

He stares ahead of him. Straight ahead. There is a guard across his cell, and he knows that his immobility makes her uncomfortable. His body is precise, and his muscles tensed just enough that he can keep himself upright but not get tired.

He doesn't get tired a lot, these days.

He is so, _so_ tired.

A light blinks on the door next to the guard, and she turns towards it as it opens. Two men come in. One is another guard, a sedating pistol in his right holster, a deadly one in his left. The other man is unarmed, dressed in a simple dark blue shirt and beige pants. He has short blond hair. His eyes look weird, but he doesn't know whether it is from lack of sleep or because the man has cried.

The two guards talk to each other, the male one keeping a hand on the other man's elbow to keep him in place. The blond is staring directly at him from across the room, so he stares back.

Finally, the guards stop talking, and the male one leaves. The woman takes on her previous position, watching him. The other man steps forward. He hesitates, then sits down at the small table in front of the holding cell.

He doesn't move. He cannot move except for his torso and head anyway. Both his wrists and ankles are bound.

(the man is familiar)

He presses a button, and an intercom crackles to life. The white noise is unsettling in the silence of his cell.

The man starts speaking. His voice has a far-away edge to it through the speakers in his cell.

“Bucky?”

(the voice is familiar, too) He does not try to remember where it comes from. He cannot remember. Remembering is not allowed. Remembering is not possible.

“Bucky? Bucky, can you hear me?”

(the name is familiar)

The name is familiar.

There is no one else in the room, so the man must be talking to him.

“Can you hear me? Answer me, please.”

It is an order, so he nods.

“You can talk.” It is an affirmation, but worry tinges the man's voice, making it sound almost like a question. “Talk to me?”

He opens his mouth. Stops. Starts again.

“I can hear you.”

The voice is not familiar.

“Do you... Do you know me?” the blond man asks. The voice is hopeful.

He shakes his head. The blond man clenches his fist.

“Bucky-”

“I don't know who you are.”

The man looks down. He closes his eyes.

After a few seconds, he stands up. His chair slides across the floor with a harsh noise, but the man doesn't stop. He leaves.

The guard walks towards the table and puts the chair back under it. She presses a button, and the intercom channel closes. There is silence again.

 

 

A psychologist comes to talk to him. She asks question, and he does not know how to answer. He does not know what she wants him to answer. It makes him uncomfortable.

When she leaves, the smile that hangs on her lips looks like it doesn't belong there.

 

 

The blond man comes back. His eyes look tired. He sits down and presses the button.

“Hey, Bucky.”

His voice is tired too. They stare at each other for a while. The blond man looks away first. He looks at his hands. He looks like he's about to leave.

“Who are you?” he asks. He doesn't want the man to leave. He is better than the psychologist, and he is better than the silence.

The man looks up. His expression is unreadable, a series of contradictory layers of emotions. “I'm Steve.”

“Steve,” he says, trying out the syllable. “Steve.”

“Do you remember me?”

There it is once more. That question. He cannot remember. It is not part of his mission.

But the name sounds familiar. The name sounds familiar even though the man doesn't.

He shakes his head anyway. He cannot remember. The man – Steve – looks like he has just been torn apart.

“Do you know who you are?” he asks, his voice so soft it barely carries over the intercom. He is looking at his hands once more, like he does not even want to hear the answer.

But then he looks up. “Tell me.”

“I'm a soldier,” he replies. This is what they had called him. Or 'the Asset', sometimes, in mission reports.

It is not the right answer. Steve crumbles before him. His knuckles are white from clenching his fists. Steve stands up. He looks him straight in the eyes. They are slightly blurred, like Steve is on the verge of tears.

“Your name is Bucky,” he says through clenched teeth. Then he storms out of the room.

The female guard watches him go with pity in her eyes.

He – Bucky? – doesn't like it.

 

 

He wakes up all at once, a scream dying out in his throat before it has the time to come on. His head is pounding. He clenches his right fist, lets his untrimmed nails bite into the skin of his palm. Still, the pain is there, and behind it the notion that he used to be something else. That he used to be someone else.

There is a guard looking at him. Not the same one as during the day. Their expression is blank, though there is a hint of curiosity in their eyes.

He speaks slowly, clearly, in Russian. The guard walks to the table and turns on the intercom.

He keeps speaking. The guard doesn't understand. He isn't looking at them. The guard turns the channel off and goes back to their position.

 

 

The psychologist comes back. She smiles at him, but the gesture is forced. She hides it well.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” she says.

He doesn't react, and she writes something down. “Sergent in the 107th.”

His skin itches, but he doesn't move. He cannot. Besides, the itch comes from his left arm.

“The Winter Soldier.”

He raises his head slightly at that, and looks at the woman. She sees his reaction and seems thrown off for a second. Scared, maybe. She puts on an air of composure once more.

“Do you know who you are?”

“I'm a soldier,” he replies. He knows this is not the right answer, but it is the only one he can trust. It used to be enough.

The psychologist writes something down. “What's your name?”

His name? Why would she need his name? A name is a weakness. It's a liability. Does she want to make him weak?

“Steve told me it was Bucky,” he says, because that is true.

The woman nods. “Do you know Steve?”

He furrows his brows. This question makes no sense. He has just said his name, so of course he knows him. She knows he does.

“I know his name.”

The psychologist looks down and smiles sadly. “I'm sorry. My question wasn't clear. Do you remember Steve? Do you have any memories of him before you came here?”

He shakes his head and closes his eyes. He doesn't remember anything. He cannot remember anything. He wants to move. He has been here for four days. They untie him when he needs to eat or to wash himself, but otherwise he stays still. Suddenly he wants to move.

“Okay, okay. Calm down, J-” He thinks that she wanted to use a name, but she stops herself. He is breathing faster than normal. This is not good, it is not appropriate. So he calms himself down, looking at the table in front of his cell and not at the woman seated at it.

“I have one more question for you. Do you remember resisting arrest? Fighting against our agents?”

At least, he doesn't have to think about it this time.

“Yes.”

Her face is a blank mask. “Why did you resist?”

He feels like laughing. This is not a sensation that he has felt often these days. Not when he has spent the past year running away, running away and surviving. For a year he had been too scared to try and do anything else. He has thought of tracking down the people he _could_ remember, vaguely aware that they had made him the way he was, that they had _done this to him_. He found out that he wasn't able to. Not because he couldn't find them, no. Because the only thing that kept him breathing was survival instinct, and this instinct kept telling him to _run_.  
When unknown agents found him and pointed a gun at his face, he hadn't exactly gone easy on them. He is a weapon. He needs to survive. His reaction had been appropriate and logical considering the situation.

“They were armed,” he says. He is sure the woman will be smart enough to realize that he isn't used to having friendly chats with people that are pointing a gun at him.

“So you acted on instinct?” she asks.

He nods. She sighs.

“My job here is to assess the level of danger you represent,” she starts saying. She is staring straight into his eyes, and he can admire that. “To be honest, I have no idea. We've been... _encouraged_ to keep you in another facility than this. Still as secure, of course. But more... spatious. I will approve this idea, but on one condition.”

She shuts her mouth and keeps staring. She is waiting for a response.  
“What is it?”

“Your left arm. It is simply too deadly a weapon.”

His arm. One more thing that makes his own body feel foreign. He remembers the sensation of falling. He remembers snow. Pain. Hands. Warmth. Pain. More pain. More pain.

It still hurts now. Despite the fact he isn't sure of his own name, his body still remembers that it is a body. It still remembers that it used to be whole. His body is precise. It is not perfect.

His arm still hurts now.

How much will it hurt when he loses it again?

 

 

You get a phone call. Again. You're not sure if it's a good thing or not. You're not sure of anything anymore. You pick it up with a steady hand anyway, because you can't affort any other kind of behaviour.

They tell you he is being moved to another facility. They give you an address. You have the right to visit. There is a psychologist, she thinks it might be good if you do. You would have gone anyway.

Even if it breaks your heart every time, even if it makes you want to snap someone's neck, you would have gone anyway.

They tell you they are moving him to another facility.

They never tell you the cost.

 

 

He sleeps in his cell, still bound to his chair. He does not dream. When he wakes, he is fed. They leave his hands free for that, though his guard watches him closely the whole time. Then he waits.

He does not try to remember, because he does not want them to know, he does not want them to see.

A group of agents come in, guns drawn. They tell him, calmly, that he will be moved to a medical facility so that they can remove his arm. Then he will be driven to his new cell. If he resists in any way, they have the right to shoot. If they feel justified to do so, they have the right to shoot to kill.

So he doesn't resist. He doesn't resist, and he doesn't make a sound. They lock his wrists together, and though he is fairly certain he could break the shackles, he keeps them in place. When his legs threaten to buckle under him because he hasn't used them much for a week, except to shower and pee, he keeps going. When his whole body starts shaking, because all of his senses are telling him to run for it, he soldiers on.

They have a medical center in the same building. He can see the large lab from one of the hallway window and he stops in his tracks. Five guns are pointing at him.

It takes him all his strength to keep still. “I can't go in. You have to sedate me now, or I won't be able to go in.” One of the guards turns to an agent that stayed behind, his commanding officer probably. She nods, and the guard walks into the lab. He comes back with a chair, equipment and a nurse.

He sits.

They put him to sleep.

 

 

The aenesthesic works well. He only wakes once, and is put back under almost immediately, with no time to feel the pain.

 

 

He wakes again.

Everything is silent. He doesn't move. He strains his ears to hear what is happening in the hallway and in the rooms around him, but his head feels fuzzy.

He is scared.

The medication makes him drowsy, but it also takes away his control. If he falls asleep again he might dream, and if he dreams he might remember.

He doesn't want to remember. He isn't allowed to remember.

He falls asleep anyway.

 

 

He wakes with the smell of onions in his nostrils, the sensation of his arm – his left arm – wrapped around a body much frailer than his, he wakes with the sensation of laughter in his throat and a voice he doesn't recognize pouring from his lips. He also wakes with a clear memory of a man in Italy, a man who died in a boat accident. Except he knows the man was already dead when the boat crashed, because he put a bullet in his head.

He wakes with laboured breath, his whole body shaking and a pounding in his ears that _will not stop_ , his head hurts, his head hurts, _his head hurts._

He tries to move.

Unsurprisingly, his ankles are cuffed to the bed. Surprisingly, his arms are not.

He tries to sit up.

He nearly topples onto his side.

He doesn't have a left arm.

 _Of course_. That's why he is here. They said it was a weapon. They said it was too dangerous. They said they had to take it away.

He doesn't feel it. His arm. He feels like there is a dark spot in his brain where the commands for his left hand should be. He also realizes that he has to hold his body differently to adapt to the loss. The arm was heavy. His body had learned to compensate by twisting slightly to the right. Now he has to do the opposite.

He tries to breathe, but his mind keeps coming back to the dark spot and the missing weight and the memory of a body tucked close to him.

When a nurse comes in, he wants to cry. He is looking downards at his lap, his hair covering his face, and he is breathing too fast and his head _hurts_. When the nurse approaches, he extends a hand, stopping her.

“No sedative. It's gonna stop, but if you do anything it'll be worse.”

He sees her nod. She stays in the room, but he ignores her, focuses on letting go of his memories despite the fuziness of his brain. He whispers under his breath. It works, after a while. He doesn't know how long.

He is _so_ tired.

They bring him food.

He eats. He sleeps.

 

 

He wakes again, this time to the taste of cigarettes and the feeling of a chilly wind on his cheeks. He knows he can't smoke inside, because it will hurt _his_ lungs.

He doesn't try to remember who _he_ is.

A doctor comes into the room. He asks how he's feeling.

“Fine. There's a throbbing in my shoulder, but it's negligeable. And my mind is less hazy than before.”

The doctor nods. This is good. He will be released later today.

Of course, released only means that he will get out of the medical facility.

 

 

They drug him again before transporting him. He doesn't know if it's so that he has no chance to figure out the route they're taking, or if they're scared that movement will hurt his shoulder. He doesn't need to know, so he doesn't ask.

Instead he dreams.

He dreams of being woken up by orders, of standing up quickly, always ready, his hands immediately finding a gun.

He dreams of war. Of cold.

He dreams of shooting someone in broad daylight, but he doesn't remember when or where.

When he wakes he is shaking. There's a seatbelt digging into his chest, and his ankles are cuffed once again. His one hand is attached to the door. The car is still moving, but it quickly stops.

They open the door, and he is forced to extand his arm. They uncuff his wrist. The chain between his feet should be long enough to let him take very small steps, but he can't trust his balance, still not used to the missing weight of his metal arm. So they put him in a wheelchair and keep him at gunpoint.

He smiles. He wants to laugh. He knows he is dangerous. _They_ know he is dangerous. But looking at himself now, he only sees something broken and useless, and it's so pathetic he wants to laugh.

Most of all, he wants to laugh at his instinct still telling him to run, to get away. As if it would be worth it.

The cell they bring him to is isolated. There is one wall made of something clear. It's not glass, it's more solid than that. The actual door to the cell isn't there, though, but on one of the side walls.

The cell is definitely bigger. He has a bed, a toilet to the side, and even a desk and a chair.

His guards push him inside, uncuff him, then leave. They lock the door behind them, and suddenly he can't hear anything.

 

 

You go see him.

You're hurt and exhausted, but you go see him anyway. What difference does it make? You know you'll leave the room even more hurt and more exhausted. You won't admit it to yourself, but you hope that the physical ache from the injuries you got during you mission will be more painful than the emptiness on Bucky's face.

The cell is at the end of a short hall. The guard lets you walk on, and waits near the door.

When he sees you he looks more scared than you've ever seen him. The fact is so shocking it takes you several seconds to notice that they took his arm.

You know the wall won't break, but you want to punch it anyway.

 

 

The man is weaing red, white and blue and _he knows him he knows him he's sure he knows him_.

He can feel skin tearing under knuckles he doesn't have anymore, he can taste his own blood on his tongue, he can feel himself falling. _He knows him_.

“ _I'm with you 'til the end of the line.”_

“ _Bucky.”_

“ _I won't fight you.”_

He can't make sense of the memories, feels unable to grasp the timeline behind them, doesn't know if they come from his dreams or just from the man standing before him.

It _hurts_.

He wants to scream but doesn't. He's frozen in place, his breathing slowing down unnaturally.

The man takes a step forward. Then a bigger step back.

The prisoner blinks. He watches. He ignores the feeling of water all around him, the weight in his hands, the aches in his muscles and the confusion _but I knew him but I knew him but I knew him_.

“Bucky?”

He flinches, closing his eyes.

He knows that voice. That's Steve's voice. But the smell of cheap cologne couldn't possibly carry through the thick walls of Bucky's cell, so there is no certainty that the voice is _real_.

“Are you okay?”

The voice cuts through the smell, but sparks up a kind of annoyance that feels just as illogical as the cologne.

“I... I'm gonna go.”

The man turns to leave.

The prisoner is confused. His head hurts, but the voice is clear even through the haze of memories, and he doesn't want to lose it.

“Steve,” he manages to say, teeth clenched and eyes still closed.

He can smell sweat now, can almost feel it on his tongue. It's not the sweat of physical effort, instead the acrid tang of sickness and a room that hasn't been aired all day.

He hears step coming closer, know that the man is there. He doesn't open his eyes just yet.

Instead he takes a lungful of air. It stinks. It smells like death and fear and helplessnes and it _stinks_ so much.

He finally opens his eyes.

The taste of blood fills his mouth again, and he bite down on his cheek so that he no longer has to distinguish between reality and memory. He focuses on the man in front of him instead.

“Steve.”

Steve nods. There's a small smile on his lips that manages to be both genuine and sad.

“Yeah. That's my name.”

“You told me last time.”

Steve smiles again, and this time it is more sad than genuine.

“I did.”

Bucky – Steve said his name is Bucky, didn't he? - nods.

They watch each other in silence.

Why doesn't he want Steve to leave? He triggers memories. He triggers memories and (Bucky) the prisoner (doesn't want to) cannot remember. This is not safe.

But they – the memories – are sharper than usual. They are almost tangible ( _the taste of blood in his mouth_ ). They do not feel like the ones that hurt too much to look for. It's like they haven't really been erased, they're just there, at arm's length, waiting for him to reach out and-

“Who hurt you?” he asks.

 _Me_. _I hurt you_.

He knows it is the truth, knows it like an ache.

But either Steve doesn't understand what he means, or he avoids the subject on purpose. He looks down at himself, at his torn uniform and the bloodstains all over it.

“A lot of different people. I kind of lost track at some point. Just hit all those who tried to hit me.”

“A mission?”

Steve nods, but doesn't elaborate. He probably can't.

Steve is looking straight at his face. Like he can't physically look anywhere else. He does not want to cross eyes with him. When he does, it feels like an itch all over his body.

“Do you remember anything? From Before?”

He closes his eyes again. “No. Not really.”

“Not really?”

He wonders why he answered truthfully. Is it just because he's been asked a direct question, or because he can feel himself wanting to trust Steve?

He thinks it's more of the former. Because the man before him is not the same as the Steve from a few days ago. He's dressed for battle, and has enough blood spatters on his uniform to prove that he is capable of being deadly. This man is dangerous, in a way the prisoner is well acquainted with. He shouldn't trust Steve.

“What do you mean by _not really_?”

“I have dreams. I can't always control them, and sometimes I remember things, but it _hurts_. And they're just... impressions. Smells. Sounds. Vague images.”

He can also remember some words. ( _Bucky. I'm with you 'til the end of the line. Bucky._ ) But he doesn't know what they mean.

“That's... a start.”

The prisoner lets out a puff of breath, something that could be a laugh. Steve doesn't understand. He doesn't understand _at all_. This isn't a start. Or if it is, it's the beginning of the end. Because he can't remember. It's not allowed and it hurts. And it's not possible.

He tries his best not to dream, but sometimes he can't avoid it. From the images he keeps from his sleep, he has concluded one thing: the memories do not make sense. Even if he somehow managed to get them all back, they wouldn't fit. It's impossible to reconstruct a person from what's left of him.

He can't remember.  
Steve triggers memories and he wants him out, he wants him to leave, he wants him _out out out_.

He can't remember.

He realises Steve is looking at his face because he doesn't want to look at the stump of his arm.

He laughs.

 

 

His routine doesn't change much now that he's in his new cell. He's still alone most of the time. He gets his meals at regular hours. He's lead to the showers at gunpoint once a day. The psychologist talks to him for an hour every two or three days.

Steve's visiting pattern is more irregular. Sometimes he will come five days in a row. Sometimes he won't show up for a week.

This leaves the prisoner with a lot of time on his own. At least now he can move. He uses the time to re-learn how his body works. It is like examining a machine, getting to know what makes it tick, what parts he has to be careful with. He learns to navigate his lack of arm quite nicely. He's always been good at adapting.

Always?

He's not sure. But it was expected of him. As a soldier. As a weapon.

He starts with walking. With standing up and sitting down, careful to keep his balance at all time, conscious of how much energy he spends on each movement, trying to reduce it.

He continues with more complicated exercises. He thinks that fighting moves would awake the suspicion of his guards, so he does squats and push-ups instead. His right arm was already well-defined, but he has lost some of his strength and discipline during the days spent immobile. So it aches a little at first, muscles straining to keep up. But he is strong. Stronger than normal. Stronger than he should be. And soon the ache dulls, faints, until it disappears completely.

 

 

Sometimes he wakes up and reaches for a knife with an arm he does not have. Sometimes he ends up colliding with a wall or falling down face-first on his mattress. The shame and the fear are always more painful than the bruises that never stay on his skin.

 

 

(Sometimes he tries to examine his memory.  
Not what has been erased.  
Not what he cannot remember.  
He tries to recall his year of running. He isn't sure what he was running from. He knows what route he took, knows which cars he had stolen, when and where. He remembers dreaming. He remembers dreaming a lot in the first few months. He remembers water.)

He counts his breaths and does not dream anymore.

 

 

“What did they do to you?”

The question is painful. Not for him, but for Steve, who is the one asking it.

“They erased your memories... but how? How did you remember how you were supposed to act? How did you keep all of your skills without knowing who you are?”

He doesn't have an answer.

Steve isn't wearing his uniform, which he's thankful for. The costume always brings back the taste of blood and the feeling of drowning, even though he's been working on keeping his memories under control.

(He hasn't told the psychologist – _his therapist? Is this a therapy? What are they trying to cure?_ Who _are they trying to cure?_ \- about his attempts to block his dreams. He doesn't think she would take it as progress.)

 

 

Steve repeats his questions, sometimes.

“Why did they do this to you?”

That one is easy to answer, so he does.

“Because I'm more efficient this way. Memories hold you back. Personality is a barrier. Having a past means having a weakness.”

Steve closes his fist and presses it against the transparent wall. He does that a lot. Almost as if he wished he could punch through it and reach him.

“Don't talk like that, please. Don't talk as if you were just an object in their hands.”

He shrugs.

“Not just an object. I'm a weapon. A dangerous one. If I turned against Hydra, I had the power to do a lot of damage. So of course they would do anything to prevent that.”

Steve closed his eyes, and took two deep breaths.

“You talk about yourself as if you're talking about someone else.”

He shrugs. This is not untrue.

“I don't know who I am.”

“You're...”

“You can talk to the psychologist if you want. She'll be able to explain. She told me that we used to be friends. That you used to be friends with Bucky Barnes. But I'm not Bucky Barnes anymore. I don't know who Bucky Barnes is. And I'm not the Winter Soldier anymore, because the Winter Soldier was empty. I'm... I'm something after the Winter Soldier. And after Bucky Barnes.”

Maybe Steve looks sad. Or maybe he looks in pain. Or maybe he looks happy and hopeful. Or maybe a combination of all three. The prisoner is too tired to figure it out.

He doesn't like to talk about himself. Mostly because he has no idea who he is.

The psychologist helps, in a way. She keeps her work focuses on getting him as far away from the Winter Soldier as he can be. That's good. It helps.

But she also pushes him in the direction of Bucky Barnes, hoping that that's who he'll become again. He knows she encourages Steve to come visit him. And that hurts. He doesn't know Bucky. He isn't him anymore.  
Bucky Barnes dreams a lot.

But there's something in Steve that calls to him, to Bucky, to the forgotten man he used to be. Steve doesn't come back wearing his uniform, so he can't really test his theory that there's something in that that calls to the Winter Soldier.

 

 

“I'm not sure why I keep going back. I'm not doing it for him. He doesn't care. He has no idea who I am. And I'm not doing this for his shrink either, because I don't think she knows who he is any better than he does.”

 _You're scared_ , is what you're saying. You're scared that going back is nothing more than a selfish gesture. Like tourists from the West going to East-Berlin to buy an Ampelmännchen figurine.

“There's no rulebook for this, Steve,” Sam says, voice soothing even over the phone. “I can't tell you what to do, because I don't have a single clue as to what you should do.”

You want to laugh. This is anything but funny, and still you want to laugh.

When did this become your life? You got injected with serum that turned you into a supersoldier, and you thought that was crazy. You woke up in the 21st century, and you thought that was crazy. You found out that your best friend was alive, and that was crazy. And now your best friend is in jail and looks at you with eyes that are empty at best and full of fear at worst, and the fact that you're still alive is the craziest thing of all. He doesn't talk much, but when he does, you can find traces of who he was in his turns of phrases. It's him, it's still him. You're not crazy.

“But he hasn't asked you to leave him. And he's alone, like, 24/7 except for the talks with his psychologist. So if he hasn't sent you out it probably means he enjoys the company.”

You shake your head.

The _company_.

That should be enough. At least he's in your life and you're in his somehow. Even if it's just as the voice who sometimes fills the silence, the entertainment to pass away the hours.

(e _ven if he's just a shadow in a shape you used to know even if he's not Bucky anymore even if he is Bucky even if he killed people almost killed you even if he doesn't regret it even if he doesn't remember even if he doesn't care_ )

 

 

He hums a tune like it's the best thing that has ever happened to him.

All of his attention is focused on the melody – some kind of showtune? - to the point where his body becomes nothing more than an instrument. It isn't very far from the sensation of being the Winter Soldier, but this time _he_ is in control, and that makes all the difference in the world.

He shakes his head softly along with the song and feels his hair brush against his shoulders.  
It doesn't hurt.

 

 

“Captain America,” he says.

Steve looks up. He's surprised. Curious. But also wary.

“You're Captain America.”

Steve nods.

He closes his eyes. He knew it. He knew it, but he didn't want to be right, because this is one of those memories that don't fit with the others.

Because when he thinks of Captain America, he thinks of a showtune, but also of red, white and blue and the taste of blood in his mouth and skin tearing under his fingers and water all around him.

And when he thinks of Steve he thinks of cheap cologne and sweat and onions and something frail and breakable under his arm.  
(and it hurts _it hurts it hurts_ )

When he opens his eyelids again, Steve is still here. He's watching him and his face is blank. He has gotten better at that, hiding his emotions. The prisoner is thankful. If someone shows emotion, he will immediately analyse them and react in accordance. It is survival instinct. It is a fighting technique. It is something he can't control, and that means that it isn't _himself_.

“I know you from Before.”

Steve nods.

“But I know you from After, too.”

Steve nods again.

He can ask. He can just ask, and Steve will probably tell him everything he wants to know and more. But if he does that, he's admitting that he wants to know. He's admitting that now that he isn't able to run anymore, he has started to give up. He has started to hold onto his dreams, despite the pain, has started to try and give meaning to the bits and pieces.  
He has started listening to his psychologist.  
He has started being a person, someone after Bucky Barnes, after the Winter Soldier.

He doesn't ask. Not yet. He knows he will, someday. But for a little while longer he holds on to his emptiness, the only thing that's his now.

 

 

The first time they put him in the chair, he fought with all he had. He didn't have his metal arm at the time, only a scarred lump at the end of his shoulder that hurt everytime it got cold. (it was always cold)

He fought with all he had and the only thing that earned him was to be beaten halfway to unconsciousness before being strapped to the machine.

 

 

He remembers his missions and his time in Hydra more easily than any detail of his life before that. It makes sense. The point of erasing his memory had been to get rid of everything that wasn't useful. Childhood memories weren't useful. But training, fear, the results of past missions? Those could be exploited on new assignment, and to get him to comply.

So it's no wonder that he has nightmares of waking up in the cold, of being given orders in Russian, of a car swerving off a road, a neat hole appearing in someone's chest, a throat carefully slit...

He knows he should feel scared of those memories. He should feel grossed out. At the very least he should feel guilty. But he's unable to do that. It has no purpose. This is all a part of him, and he has to accept it, but it also feels detached from him, as if all of these things had really only ever happened in a dream.

 

 

“I'm going to ask you a question that you might find surprising.”

The psychologist looks at him with the sort of calm that comes from being a construction. There's nothing to decipher in her expression that she doesn't _want_ him to see. So he just nods.

“You know that my first task was to assess the level of danger that you represent.”

He nods again.

“What level of danger do you think you represent?”

He frowns. She was right, the question is unexpected. His opinion on the subject doesn't matter. It's not for him to judge.

But she has asked a question, and while he gains nothing by answering her, he doesn't gain much more by not doing so.

“What kind of scale are you using?”

She smiles. “One to ten? One being inoffensive, ten being impossible for us to handle.”

“Eight right now. In a month, probably nine.”

She raised an eyebrow, obviously interested. “What changes after a month?”

“I learn to fight with only one arm. It's obviously my biggest weakness right now, since I'm not used to it, but in a month I should be fine again.”

“And by fine, you mean that you would become more dangerous?”

“Potentially.” He tries not to think of himself as a weapon, not to analyse every part of his body like it is nothing but a gear in some deadly machinery. But he is clearly aware that his Hydra training is what is the most ingrained in his muscles. Aggression is instinctive in him. And there is also the possibility that someone could hack into his “brainwashing”. (he doesn't like to use that word even though the psychologist – therapist? - tells him he should) (it doesn't feel like a real word, it feels like something that happens in fantasy, in movies and bad books and comics) (he thinks of his arm, more weapon than prostethic, of his body, constantly healing too fast, he doesn't think all of that feels real either)

“With the right trigger, I could potentially be as dangerous as before you captured me.”

She nods. “You remember your capture. You told me yourself. And when you fought our agents, you said it was out of instinct. But if you think that you represent enough of a threat to earn a nine, how come you're in this cell right now?”

It could be considered cruel, this subtle way of minimizing his abilities. It feels like mercy. It feels stupid, because if this woman think she can understimate him, she's in danger.

“It took you a year to find me. I was running blind, without a plan, without resources, and it still took you a year to find me.”

He could tell her that when the agents came, he had been trying to locate one of the Hydra base he had been stationed at before, a location that had flashed through his dreams several times despite himself. He could tell her that when the agents came, he had been on the verge of a panic attack and high on the pain from his headaches.

“I hadn't eaten more than a meal a day in a week. And how many men did it take you to get me here?”

He looks her straight in the eyes. She doesn't waver, and he admires her for it, but he doesn't waver either. She looks down after fifteen seconds of tension.

Maybe he should be afraid of scaring her. She is the reason he was put in this cell and isn't strapped to a chair anymore. But she doesn't seem scared. Cautious, maybe, but not scared.

“Point taken.”

 

 

You sit down on the ground in front of the transparent wall. The guard told you she could bring a chair and table, but you waved her off. You don't want to put any more distance between him and you than is necessary.

The guard activates the mic system from her position near the door, and you hear it turn on with a click.

He drags his chair towards you and sits down.

He's moving more easily and confidently than when you first saw him without his metal limb. That's good.

You have to look up at him to see his face, and when you do so it is familiar. You remember being a head smaller than him and looking into his eyes like this, trying to get a read of what he was feeling, the things he wouldn't say because _you had enough on your plate already, Steve, it's nothing, just drop it_.

You look up at the Winter Soldier, and Bucky looks down at you. The curve of his mouth even rises up into a smile, small and short-lived, but there nonetheless.

“Good afternoon,” you say. The words feel weird in your mouth. They're words for a stranger, not words for your closest friend. But there are no words for closest-friends-turned-strangers, so you settle on the option that is least painful.

“Good afternoon,” he replies. There is a short silence, and he frowns slightly. “Can I ask you a question?”

This is new. You nod, deliberately slowly, trying not to appear too excited.

“Why are you here?”

 

 

Steve stiffens slightly, but hides it well. You only notice because you are looking for it.

“What do you mean?” He asks. He is stalling.

“You come here to see me, but why? You know me from Before. I know that. I... I know _you_ , sometimes, a little. But you don't know me _now_. And it's painful for you, to see me like this,” he lets the words flow out of his mouth without care, unsure of what he's about to say up until the moment he's said it. But he knows he is right. “You're looking for someone else. Is that why you're here? Because you want to find him again?”

“Bucky...”

He smiles at the nickname. _James Buchanan Barnes_. That had been his name, Before. The memories are starting to stick, now that he's in a stable environment and running on more than adrenaline. This is exactly what he had been avoiding for a year. By staying on the run, never staying in one place more than a few days, he had been able to escape his own mind, to lose himself in the instinctive protocols of securing food, a place to sleep, then moving on and repeating the process again.

“I'm not Bucky anymore.”

 

 

You don't like the way he says it, like you're a piece of fragile porcelain in his hands. You never liked being coddled. But he has always been like this, has always tried to take care of you, and maybe it's the contradiction between what he just told you and how similar his behaviour is to how he used to treat you that makes you say what you say next.

“Then who are you?”

He doesn't reply. You knew what you were doing when you said that. You remember what Dr. Thompson told you about his identity confusion. You knew you were going to hurt him.

You said the words anyway.

Do you regret it? You're not sure. You're curious. You want to see what he will answer. (there is some part of you that thinks you have the right to hurt him) (there is some part of you that still hurts) (there is some part of you that you refuse to look at, because it is so _angry_ and so _scared_ )

“I'm... me. I'm trying to figure it out.”

The way he says it is open and honest, and it breaks your heart all over again. Why did you have to act so pettily?

“Who are you?”

He looks at you as he asks, and his smile is almost innocent. You want to freeze that smile permanently on his lips, but then the question actually hits you.

Who are you?

You're a man from another time.

You're a hero. (a villain, a destructor, a fool, an idiot, dangerous, out of control, it all depends on the point of view)

You're Steve Rogers, born in Brooklyn, son to your mother.

You're Captain America, a symbol, an idea, a tool for propaganda.

You're an Avenger, no longer a SHIELD agent.

You're this man's friend.

You have no idea who you are.

 

 

It doesn't bring any pleasure to hurt him back. Steve does his best to hide the fact that he's even _thinking_ about his question, of course, but he's bad at covering his expressions.

He doesn't actually want to hurt Steve. He has no reason to. They don't know each other, and he's under no orders. But defending himself comes as an instinct, and if Steve hits him low, he is ready to do the same.

Steve doesn't answer the question.

“Why do you come here?” He asks again, because maybe Steve will answer that one. Maybe it's easier for him to talk about the prisoner than to talk about himself.

Steve looks down at his crossed legs and sighs.

“I'm not sure. I miss you. Or... I miss Bucky. And... I like the routine, I guess. Or maybe... Maybe I just like to tell myself that I can help you somehow. Maybe I just like to tell myself that you need my help.”

He nods, even though Steve hasn't looked up.

“Do you want me to stop coming?”

The question takes him by surprise, although in retrospect it shouldn't have. He has to think about it for a moment. Since his capture, he has accepted everything that happened to him with simple passivity, because nothing else was expected from him. Wanting things for himself is a concept that feels both foreign and familiar.

“No. I can't promise you'll get anything from it, but you can come back as often as you like.”

Steve smiles slightly, a single corner of his mouth rising up.

 

 

He looks at his hand, raised high above his head. He tries to imagine how the cell's light would reflect on metal fingers. The stump of his shoulder feels like it's on fire.

He thinks that winter is starting.

He hasn't been paying attention to the passing of time. Wasn't focused enough to do it during his first days of emprisonment, and afterwards it had just become too much of an effort to bother with.

He could always ask Steve, of course.

The blond man has been visiting him more regularly. He's also asked the guards to let the prisoner do something with his days, so now he brings him books each time he comes, though they always have to be checked by the prison staff before he can get them.

He is thankful for the distraction, and also for the fact that it gives them something to talk about. He doesn't want Steve to stop visiting him, but he knows what the blond is dying to ask, knows that the only subject he truly wants to talk about his the past.

To be fair, he has been remembering more and more in the past weeks of his imprisonment. It helps to know that there is no immediate threat to his safety in this cell. If he wakes up on the verge of a panic attacks with too any smells in his nose and too many sounds in his ears, he knows he can take the time to breathe through it. He cannnot run anymore, and maybe that means he doesn't have to.

 

 

Steve comes in without books, and sits down on the ground like usual.

He doesn't speak, though. Usually, he is always the first one to speak.

The prisoner looks at him, trying to gain information from his facial expressions, but Steve covers half of his face with a hand.

He thinks that maybe Steve has been crying.

Steve doesn't break the silence. He looks up at him sometimes, but looks down again almost immediately, as if holding back more tears.

He is completely at a loss of what to do.

It hurts.

It hurts to watch him like that, because some part of him still considers Steve his best friend. (he remembers a plane and stopping his fist in mid-air, hit by that same realisation)

He stands up from his chair and carefully lowers himself to the ground, mimicking Steve's position. It shortens the distance between them and puts them on equal footing.

Steve looks up one more time, and actually lets the tears flow.

Once they start it seems they will never stop. He watches Steve and wonders when is the last time he himself cried. Even his worst headaches haven't managed to bring tears to his eyes. He thinks that the last time he cried must have been during the early stages of his training in Hydra, when he was still aware of himself, of the pain, of what they were doing to him and what they wanted him to _do_.

“Do you remember Peggy Carter?” Steve asks once his sobs have calmed down a bit.

He does. Her identity was relevant to his work, and thus part of the basic protocols now ingrained in his brain. But this isn't what Steve needs to hear. He's asking whether he remembers her from Before, before Hydra. Questions can always be wrongly interpreted.

“I do.”

Steve looks up so quickly he hurts his neck and winces. He looks like the universe has just been laid out at his feet, and it's _wrong_. But his expression quickly falls into sadness again, as he looks at Bucky with regret in his eyes.

“She just died.”

He doesn't say more, and looks back down at his lap without waiting for the prisoner's reaction. It is better this way, because he doesn't know how to react. He hasn't lied in saying he knows her, but this woman doesn't mean anything to him. Definitely not as much as she obviously means to him.

“I used to visit her at the hospital. She... She had a disease. I knew she wouldn't live for much longer but... But she was always so strong. And she looked so happy to see me.” He rubs at his eyes. “Everytime. Even when she... when she didn't remember that I'm still alive.” Steve closes his eyes and breathes for a while.

A disease. “ _I used to visit her at the hospital.”_ She didn't remember him. _“Maybe I like the routine.”_

The prisoner doesn't think he looks happy when Steve comes to visit him. But he still does.

 

 

The psychologist asks him if he feels guilt.

“Sometimes.”

Mostly he feels guilty about the fact that he doesn't feel any guilt for his actions. But that's the problem. He's still barely able to consider them as _his_ actions.

Yet there is no denying that. Not with the way his mind and body work, not with the arm that they took from him. The Winter Soldier is guilty, and the Winter Soldier is him, but the Winter Soldier is incapable of feeling any guilt.

She asks him if he thinks there is a way for him to make things right.

“No.”

The dead don't come back. And if they do, it's as something else, something twisted. The dead don't want to come back.

She asks him about his memories. Not about Before, but about Hydra. She looks slightly embarassed to be asking these questions, so he guesses that they don't come from her.

“Do you want to get revenge? For what they did to you?”

He thinks about it. Of course he has wanted to before. _An instinct. Be hurt. Hurt back._ In the same way, he has wanted to escape from his cell and destroy it. He has wanted to find whoever ordered for his prosthetic to be taken away and take their arm too. He has wanted to punch Steve's face until he became unrecognisable.

So he thinks about it, truly thinks about it, and he finds that, no, he doesn't want revenge.

“I don't. I'll never get back what they've taken from me. Revenge wouldn't help me. But if I ever had to face Hydra again...” He thinks he knows where this interrogation is going. “I like to think that I'd destroy them. Not as revenge. Simply because they need to be stopped.”

The psychologist smiles at him. He isn't sure whether she's genuinely happy with his answer, or whether she sees straight through his acting.

 

 

The next time she comes to see him, she asks whether he remembers anything about Hydra that could be of use to find their remaining active bases. He asks for a sheet of paper and a pen.

 

 

They give him a notebook and a pencil. (it's less dangerous than a pen) (he doesn't have the right to a pencil sharpener, he will have to ask them to sharpen it)

They tell him to write down everything he knows. He can keep the notebook in case he remembers more things later on.

He nods, sits down at his table, and starts writing.

He writes down the locations of the few bases he had tried to go to when he was running, and a few more he remembers. He writes down the name of a few Hydra operatives who can override the orders he is given, the names of the people in charge of him, people he had had to remember despite the wipings.  
He describes the maps, the coordinates, the codes and protocols.

He gives them everything he has, and it fits neatly on five sheets of paper.

He frowns. Seventy years, and it all fits on five small sheets of notebook paper.

He gives them to the guard who brings him his food.

And that's it. It's done. He goes back to the routine of imprisonment.

But he gets to keep the notebook.

He starts to record his dreams, the memories from his life as Bucky Barnes. He sets them on paper as they come back to him, hoping that he'll be able to figure out the logic that link them all together.

One thing he quickly realises, is that his life is made of Befores and Afters. There are distinct periods he can separate, but the thing he has the most difficulties remembering are the specific events that separate these periods.

He keeps trying.

 

 

“Do dancing halls still exist?” He asks Steve one day as the man sits down.

Steve frowns, but he seems amused. “I don't think so, no. Why?”

He shrugs, a little disappointed. “Nothing. I remember that I loved to dance.”

“You do?”

Steve is curious. It shows in his body language, though he is careful not to ask too many questions. _How much do you remember? Do you remember us going out dancing together? What else do you liked?_

But he wants to talk, today. He's been making progress. Sorting through his memories doesn't hurt as much as it used to. It isn't as scary.

He's started to think of himself as someone who really went through all of these events. _James_. _James Barnes_.

“We used to go together. Try to pick up girls.”

“You did most of the picking up.”

“That's because you didn't even try.”

Steve grins, like they're both kids again, like nothing ever happened to them that was worse than Steve's mom dying or that time his lungs got infected.

“Buck, I...”

“James,” he says, scratching at his neck with his one arm. “I'm not...” He frowns slightly, looking for the right words. “I don't want you to think that I'll ever be the same person I was before. So, I'm not... Don't call me Bucky. Just James.”

“Okay.”

Steve says it like it's simple. Like he means it. Like he'll do whatever James asks if it's to help him, and James wants to _scream_.

Because it's not easy. Because, however much intel on Hydra he manages to dig up through his layers of brainwashing, it will never amend for all that he's done. Because it will never bring back the dead. But mostly because it will never bring back Bucky Barnes, the young man who only wanted his best friend to stay alive. Because he will never remember _everything_.

He talks about his memories with Steve. They exchange banter. James even tries to make a joke.

He never tells the blond man that, more than anything in the world, he wishes he could forget it all.

 

 

You're exhausted when you arrive at the prison. You just came back from a mission, and insomnia hasn't let you catch a break. But you weren't joking when you said that you like the routine. Actually, you kind of need it.

(Bucky) James is confusing. You never know where to stand with him. Sometimes he'll talk about himself easily, and sometimes he'll avoid it at all cost. But always, his expression stays nearly unreadable. You can only guess what kind of day he's having, and most of the time you guess wrong.

But today you don't need to guess, because the guard that lets you in tells you immediately that he's not having a good day. And she's obviously right.

James is sitting on the ground, back against the far-end wall. He's clutching the stump of his left arm with his right hand. ( _they didn't have to do that it was just cruel why not give him another prostethic why leave him like that why do you care so much how is this worse than a metal arm it didn't belong to him anyway_ ) His hair is falling in front of his face, but he looks up when you come in.

He holds your gaze only for a few seconds before looking away.

There are pieces of paper on the ground. There's writing scrawled on almost every one of them, but it looks like they all got torn up.

Suddenly, you're scared.

You put your hands to the transparent wall, childishly thinking that maybe you could just break through it. But you can't.

“James? Are you okay?”

What are the prison guards doing to help him? This looks bad. Did they call Dr. Thompson? Is Dr. Thompson even qualified? She's not actually James' therapist. She's there for risk assessment. ( _there to manipulate him to find out how he can be useful why do people always want to use him why can't they just let him be a person is that really too much to ask)_

“James?”

“Don't!” James drops his hand into his lap, fist clenched. All the muscles in his face are tensed. “Don't. Just... Shut up. Just shut up!”

He is shouting, and you freeze. You don't understand what's happening. You have no idea what you should do. You want to help. You want to help. You want to help.

But he doesn't want you to?

You don't know. You can't be sure. _He_ can't be sure.

(How can you trust him when he cannot trust himself?) NO. You can't think like that. You don't have the right. If you think like that you're no better than the people who put him there.

( _why do you always want to be better?) (is this some dellusion of grandeur?) (you're not Captain America, you're just a guy in a suit who's good at pretending and better at punching stuff) (and you didn't even get good at that until you were injected with some magic serum so really who are you trying to fool)_

“James. Please.”

You don't even know what you're begging for. Something. Anything. An idea of what's going on, a word of reassurance. An order to just walk away, so you could tell yourself that you tried, but you couldn't have done anything, because he didn't want you here.

But James looks up. He looks up and he holds your gaze and he looks _terrified_.

“I can't.” The words are whispered too softly to be picked up by the microphones, but you can read them on his lips.

“What? What's going on?” You can hear your voice almost breaking, can feel the panic rising up. He can definitely hear it too, and you hate it. You hate the fact that you somehow managed to make it about yourself. You hate the fact that you can't be strong enough for him, that he has to watch your façade crack every time you see him, because this is hard, it's so hard, and still you know it's nothing compared to what he's going through.

“I can't make sense of it. I can't take it, and it _hurts_ , it hurts _so much_ every time I try to think about it.”

“Think about what, Bucky? Think about what?”

“You're Steve, but you're not Steve. And I'm me, but I'm not me. But when did I become like this? I don't know, it hurts, I don't _know_.”

You can feel tears welling up in your eyes. You haven't seen this much emotion on his face since he's been here. Even the first time you came in bloody from battle. The room is vibrating with so much anger and fear that you can feel it in your bones.

“You fell.”

You hate how the words sound, as if it had ever been as simple as that, as if that moment that changed everything could be expressed so matter-of-factly.

“From a moving train. I tried to save you, but I couldn't. I thought you'd died. But Hydra got to you. You lost your arm in the fall and they... They-”

“I KNOW!” James slams his fist against the floor as he screams. His eyes are wild. You take an involuntary step back. “I know. I know that. I was me then. I was still me. But I can't... I can't find the moment I stopped. Being... whoever I was.”

He covers his chest with his arm, hugging himself awkwardly. You wish you could hold him. You wish you could put an arm around his shoulders and keep him close, like he's done with you so many times before. But there's a wall between you now, a wall and several armed guards.

You wonder how long you will be able to resist before you start making up escape plans. You look at James and think _not long_.

“You keep telling me that I'm not the Winter Soldier.”

“You're not.”

“Stop. Shut up. Stop. I _am._ I _am_ the Winter Soldier. There's no... There wasn't any huge turning point. And I didn't wake up one day without any will. Everything I am right now... it was always there. It never went away. _I_ was always there. Through all the things the Winter Soldier did. And these past months I've tried to tell myself that I would be able to accept all these different people that I've been, but that's a load of fucking _bullshit_. I've never been different people. I've always just been me. I've been looking through my memories for weeks, giving myself headaches until I couldn't see straight, all in the hope that I would find this one moment, this one magical instant where Dear-old-Bucky broke and became something else, but _no_. Dear-old-Bucky never broke, Dear-old-Bucky's still here and _why can't he just leave me alone._ ”

James slams his fist against the wall, skin already red from when he hit the floor.

Why aren't the guards doing anything? Why haven't they called for help?

“James. Don't, please, stop... You're not...”

“What, _Steve_?”

He spits out your name like an insult. You take a step backwards again. You're scared of him. More scared than you were of the Winter Soldier. Because the man before you has all the strength of the soviet assassin, but he also knows you enough to hit you where it will hurt most.

“I'm not a bad person? Well, I'm not good either. I'm not like you. So don't tell me you can relate. You have a clear-cut Before and After. Me? I don't get that.”

“I didn't ask for it.”

“You begged for it. You begged for them to send you to war.”

“I didn't ask for _this_.” You gesture at yourself, although your words encompass him as well. “There was no other way. I had no idea what it would mean, but there was no other way, so I did what I had to.”

“You did what you could. While _I_... just can't.” He starts laughing. It's slow and silent at first, a few puff of breaths, but then it becomes louder, until it becomes hysterical laughter.

You want to scream. You want it to stop.

“Look at me. Look at the mess I made of myself. Do you really want to keep wasting time visiting me, Steve? Am I your new Peggy? Because if I am I should warn you. I'm not gonna die easily. You can come back, and come back, and for years, I'll be there. I'll always be there. The ghost of the man you're looking for. But no, I _am_ that man. I am all that's left of him. Have you ever wondered how long we can live, Steve? With that serum in us? It's gotta be more than a hundred years. Will you still be there, then? Will you keep trying and trying, while we both slowly grow old?” He smirks. “But you probably won't. You'll probably die during a mission somewhere. Quick and easy.”

“Stop it, James.”

“Or what?”

You can feel tears in your eyes. You don't care if they fall down or not. You won't look away from the man in front of you.

“Or nothing. I don't know. Just stop it, please. I don't know why you're saying all of these things. Is it to hurt me? Because you don't need to. We both know I've been hurting more than I ever have these past months. And I try to pretend otherwise. I try to pretend I'm okay with you being here, like this, but I know I'm terrible at acting.” You take a breath. “The thing is, James,” you keep on repeating the name, constantly reminding yourself of what it means, holding onto the single syllable like it's a lifeline. “I'm not as stuck in the past as you think I am. I've been here for a while now, I've learned to deal.” You shake your head. There is no order to your thoughts, the words are just flowing out. “I watched you die. I mourned you. If you think I wouldn't be content to _just have you back_ , no matter what version of you, you're a fool. You're right if you think I miss Bucky. I miss Bucky Barnes every goddamned second of my goddamned life. But that doesn't mean I want him back. Not if it means that you have to pretend. Not if it means that anybody is getting hurt again.”

It's hard to breathe. Your throat is dry. It hurts a little bit.

He looks at you. The only movement his that of his chest as he mirrors the deep breaths you are taking to try and calm down.

“It hurts to see you like this. It hurts every single time I come here. But not because you're not the same as before. Not because you changed. It hurts, because after everything you've been through, you're _here_. You're stuck in a jail. You're alone. They took your arm and I just... Maybe I'm not the best person to keep you any kind of company. But people aren't exactly lining up at your door, James. And, selfishly? I don't want to lose you again. So yeah. That's all I have. If you truly want me to go and never come back, you can just say so, and I will. But until you say those words, you're stuck with me. One word from you and I'll back off, but pushing me away like this? By hurting me and hurting yourself? It won't work.”

_I'm with you 'til the end of the line._

You want to say the words, but you don't. They're Bucky's words. Now is not the time to bring them back.

 

 

James is hugging himself as tight as he can, and he's shaking. He feels raw and exposed. It is mostly of his own doing, though he still feels traces of a headache just behind his eyes.

He doesn't want to think about it.

He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to think about Hydra, doesn't want to think about Steve. He just wants to be blank. He just wants to feel _less_ , because right now everything is overwhelming. But Steve is there, looking at him, and it's impossible to feel nothing with him in the room.

He manages to be grateful for that, just for a moment.

He brings his hand to his eyes. They're wet. For a moment, he just lets his fingers there, completely still. The tears don't fall farther, gathering at the edge of his eyelids only.

“I'm sorry,” he says. He means it. Somehow he actually means it. “I'm sorry. I didn't want you here. I didn't want you to see me like this.”

“Just say the words and I'll go.”

James laugh. It's so easy to say, and it's just too perfect. Somehow Steve is able to make promises like _I'll never leave_ and have them sound true. It's not _fair_.

“I kind of want you to hate me. It would be easier. If even you gave up on me, nobody could blame me for giving up on myself.

“James...”

“Don't. It's okay. I'm not gonna... do anything. Damn, somedays it's the only thing I want to think about, but still, I'm not gonna do anything. Or I would have done it long ago. But the thing is... I can't. Because if I kill myself, it will be one more thing that escaped my control, one more thing that was taken from me. And yeah, sitting in this cell that's a constant reminder of everything I lost probably isn't the best, but at least I'm me, here. I'm me, I'm safe, and I'm alive.” He clenches his fist until his nails bite into his skin. The pain is barely enough to bring him any more clarity, but at least it's something. “God, I'm _alive_.”

That is what breaks the dam, and the tears finally fall down his cheeks. He curls in around himself to hide his face in his knees.

He still doesn't remember when was the last time he cried.

 


End file.
